


hello summer

by fated_addiction



Category: K-pop, Real Person Fiction, Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25307164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: Irene honestly doesn’t care whose fault it was. She has only been home less than ten minutes.Or, Joy breaks the AC and it all goes to hell.(Or, simply, Irene hates when things get complicated.)
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 109





	hello summer

-

The apartment is hot.

Actually, _hot_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

Yeri stands at the end of the hallway, her hands balled into fists. “This is a _fucking_ tragedy,” she snarls, mostly at Joy, actually _directly_ at Joy, so much so that Irene feels obligated to trudge between the two of them.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Joy insists. Holds her hands up. She’s already backing up into her bedroom, ready to stay with Yerin or Hayoung.

Irene honestly doesn’t care whose fault it was. She has only been home less than ten minutes and Seulgi simply packed a bag and said _Sunmi_ and Wendy is the kitchen, trying to scour the Internet for some kind of solution at ten o’clock at night. Because that’s what Wendy does. Find solutions.

She moves to the thermostat and Joy and Yeri erupt into an actual argument about the situation, whatever it is at this point.

“You jacked it up,” Yeri insists.

“It was hot when we got home!”

Yeri narrows her eyes. “You literally said I’m just going to press buttons because it’s nearly ninety out and oh, _oops_ , let me hope for the best.”

Irene almost says I’ve only been home for ten minutes. But decides against it. She wedges between the two girls and tries to pretend to understand what’s going on with the thermostat because why not, isn’t this what she’s supposed to do anyway? She’s exhausted though and every part of her body is sore. She feels like she’s been dancing for sixteen hours, she thinks. 

“Wasn’t it seventeen?” she mutters, out loud. Then she gives up, turning to both girls. “Go find somewhere else to stay. You’re both giving me a headache and I still need to shower and understand why you both decided to mess with this.”

“ _Unnie_!”

Irene’s back is already turned, on her way to the kitchen. “Go!”

It is hot though, she thinks. Maybe even vaguely. Her t-shirt is already starting to tighten around her hips. She can still breathe somewhat decently, she thinks. She spies that the windows have been cracked open too, as far as they can. That’s a whole different problem, she thinks too.

Wendy is sitting at their kitchen table though. Legs up on her chair. She’s wearing shorts and they slide higher up her thighs and she shifts around. Irene bites her lip and stares, following the long line of her legs and her thighs all the way up the exposed skin underneath her cropped shirt.

“Haven’t found anything,” Wendy answers. She doesn’t look up from her phone. “I left a message for the building supervisor and a couple for the manager unnie that’s supposed to take me to schedule tomorrow afternoon.”

Irene wrinkles her nose. “Ugh.”

“I mean I could google how to fix it. But I wouldn’t trust myself.”

“Please don’t,” Irene groans. Presses her fingers into her temples. She takes the chair next to Wendy. “I don’t think I could handle that.”

Wendy laughs.

Somewhere behind them, there’s commotion in the hallway. Irene tries to ignore the mental image of Yeri probably killing Joy. She hasn’t even reached the twenty-minute mark of being home yet. Her phone buzzes at her hip too. Seulgi is probably at Sunmi’s apartment by now.

It’s also starting to get hot. Fun fact: the circulation in their new- _old_ dorm has always sucked. It’s something none of them have really had time to address, given that they really are way too busy to be home outside of random spurts of days. But Irene is starting to feel it, the heat crawling against her legs, her throat, around and against the back of her neck. Beads of sweat are starting to gather at her palms and she hates that, rubbing them against her knees.

“We should get ice cream,” she announces.

Wendy looks up from her phone. It seems like the most logical thing to do.

The convenience store isn’t far. The walk outside, however, brings back Yeri’s words and _this is a fucking tragedy_ echoes mockingly in her head.

“It’s in the eighties right now,” Irene grouses, “and our _dumb_ apartment is really hotter than it is outside.”

Wendy snorts. “We can’t do much until someone calls back.”

They are the only two in the store. If the guy at the register recognizes them, he says nothing. Flips idly through his phone because it’s almost eleven thirty at night and who cares that they’re wandering around. She grabs two waters, then two cones, and Wendy glosses over the fans, the ones that you fill with water and can spray yourself with.

“Gimmick?”

“No idea.” Irene picks one up and stares at it. “Who cares, let’s try,” she says, grinning when Wendy laughs too.

She goes to pay. Can’t remember the last time she’s spent with Wendy and it’s been like this, just the two of them. Since it’s never been just the two of them. Well, she thinks, it hasn’t been for a really long time. Instead, she finds herself leaning against the counter, waiting for the guy to give her card and their stuff, sneaking glances at Wendy who is waiting for her at the front.

For the first time, she thinks _she looks good_ and hates that she’s finally thought that, or can’t remember the last time she’s told Wendy that she looks good. It’s not that she can’t; it’s just that she can’t do it without making it weird. The underlying tension has always been there between them. It may or may not have escaped in a couple of drunken make outs or some really dark, really profound moments where she was always on the cusp of admitting things she really wasn’t ready to admit. Those ones are the ones she tries to forgets, or does forget, and then remembers when Wendy is just there and there is nowhere else to go.

“Hey,” she finds herself saying. Shoves her stuff into her purse and grabs an ice cream cone out of their bag. “You look great,” she says awkwardly. You’re so dumb, she tells herself. 

Wendy doesn’t react. Simply takes the ice cream from her hand. The paper tears as she peels back the wrapper. 

“Thanks.”

Irene watches her tongue dart out and slides over the ice cream. It looks sticky. Ice cream spreads a little over Wendy’s bottom lip.

“Do you feel okay?” Irene asks. Nearly kicks herself.

“I’m trying to eat ice cream.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yah.” Wendy’s voice drops a little. It’s husky and tight and they stop, Wendy handing her the half-eaten ice cream to try. “You mothering me isn’t cute, you know,” she says too. “I’d rather you just tell me what’s bothering you – I haven’t changed at all.”

“That’s not what I meant. Sorry. I just –” She bites at the ice cream with her teeth. She gasps because it’s cold, covering her mouth as some of it melts off of her lips. “I’m just trying to check in.” Irene swallows. “That’s all.”

“Eat the ice cream,” Wendy just says.

The other one remains in the bag, forgotten, as they walk back to their apartment in silence. They share the one. Irene finds herself sneaking more glances, watching Wendy’s tongue lap away at the ice cream. If she had to admit to some kind of kink or fixation, it would be Wendy’s mouth, how soft and wet and glossy it always looks, how warm she knows it can be. She hates herself for every one of those thoughts, simply because they’re not productive and because wanting to kiss Wendy always happens after, in some kind of way.

They’re supposed to be figuring out their air conditioning situation as it is. Their building comes into view and looms over them, mockingly almost, mostly because they all have long days tomorrow and there is something to be said about wanting to sleep in your own bed.

“I don’t want to go in.”

Irene stops first. Grabs Wendy’s wrist without thinking, reaching in and taking one last bite from the ice cream cone.

“Wait.” Wendy stops her and suddenly, her fingers are on her face, wiping the remnants of the ice cream off her mouth. “You had something there,” she murmurs. And god, this is what she means.

Irene has never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as she wants to kiss Wendy right now. In her head, even, it seems like the most responsible thing to do. She thinks things like: _is she as hot as me right now_ or will she be as sticky or even, she probably tastes really sweet. Because tasting Wendy always seems to be right there, right on that point – sweet enough to sink right into her and stay.

But she doesn’t.

For the record.

The shower is a stupid idea.

It seems impossibly hot in the apartment when they get back and Irene runs away to shower, under the excuse that she’s tired and sore and no good to anyone when she feels like she’s going to peel or melt into a giant puddle.

So she’s an idiot. Thinks about Wendy’s mouth. She decides to change the water from hot to cold and hot again because her muscles really just want a hot shower, but the inside of their apartment is going to dramatically remind her that it’s going to feel like a hundred degrees whether she wants it to or not. Maybe they should just go to a hotel, she thinks.

She still forces herself to close her eyes. Leans her head against the wall, her hands flat by her head. The water slides over her hair, along her back, and she can’t stop thinking about the scope of Wendy’s mouth. She wonders if it’s still sticky. If it’ll taste sticky and sweet, an hour after they’ve come back to the apartment from their walk outside.

It’s just you, she tells herself. Her mind goes blank with the excuse and her hand pulls itself away from the wall. It’s just you, she tells herself again. And again. Her fingers feel cued. They slide between her legs. No one is going to hear her. The kitchen is at the opposite end of the hallway and their bathroom walls are solid. Wendy’s probably on her phone again.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Slides her fingers between her legs. She shudders at one touch and bites her lip, still half-listening for any noises outside the door. This is what happens when you don’t live alone; you start, you pause, and start again. There’s no sound though and when her fingers slide inside herself, she turns her wrist just a little because oh god.

The tension starts to leave her.

Then the power goes out.

There’s no fanfare: Irene pauses, eyes wide, and her wrist sort of goes slack. Her hands move back to the wall and her belly drops, the water all of the sudden lukewarm and not hot. She waits for the lights. Then waits again. Nothing happens and she is almost ready to panic.

“You okay?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses. “What?”

The door is cocked open without a knock. Irene’s shoulders immediately sag with relief, then embarrassment as her arms wrap around her torso to cover herself in some kind of messy attempt at modesty.

There’s a dim light from a phone and her next thought is, of course, _of course_ they don’t have a flashlight. She ignores the leftover tension that returns to the pit of her stomach, never mind that she even forgot to lock the door.

“I can’t really see,” she answers dryly. “The towel’s right by you.”

“Is it okay that I come in?”

“You’ve seen me naked before. I think we’re past that point.”

There’s weight in Wendy’s laugh. Irene feels the knots in her stomach twist.

“True,” Wendy says. “Just trying to be polite.”

She doesn’t barge in, but it feels like she barges in and Irene doesn’t know how to process how they’ve suddenly gone from grabbing a towel to Wendy _wrapping_ said towel around her or that the bathroom is now the hottest place in the entire apartment and there is absolutely nothing they can do.

Wendy’s fingers knot the towel over her breasts. They linger and Irene stares, first at her fingers, then up at Wendy.

“Maybe we should go to a hotel,” she murmurs. “The company can deal.”

“This is a lot,” Wendy agrees.

“Think it’s more than that.” Neither of them addresses the fact that she decided to take a hot shower either. Irene licks her lips. “I’m really just too tired to deal with this too, you know.”

“I know. You look tense.”

“You could help me,” Irene blurts, and Wendy laughs, startled. She seems surprised or as surprised as Irene can paint her, in the really dark bathroom with only the phone light.

The thing is Wendy just doesn’t back down.

“Do you want me to?” 

She even asks and Irene swears the bathroom has gotten smaller than it already is. She remembers that Wendy’s fingers are still hovering around her breasts, over the knot in the towel that she made for her. Or they never really left.

Wendy says nothing. Grabs her hand and still says nothing. Their fingers lace together and she leads them with her dumb phone light, down the hall and into Irene’s room. Probably because it’s the closest. It doesn’t even matter now; Irene’s stopped thinking about it.

It’s that every fiber of her being aches, possibly from the tension, or the weight of the day, or even something as simple as thinking about kissing Wendy all damn night when they really should be sitting at a hotel room, ignoring this because there’s air condition and a solution on the way. But she’s thinking about what she nearly decided to do, almost did, and the heat between her legs reminds her that she still aches and she still has a need to finish herself off.

“We could get messy,” Irene warns. Her voice softens and it feels like the first time she’s been honest. No strings attached, she thinks. Maybe she doesn’t mean it. Or maybe she does and it’s just easier to say.

“Sure,” Wendy agrees. 

Irene’s room is dimly lit, mostly from the outside traffic. Wendy tosses her phone to the side, somewhere, and that light source is lost without a thought. They can see each other in the dark. No, Irene thinks. Not really. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like it matters anyway.

She makes the first move. Unknots her towel and lets it drop. Wendy doesn’t take the time to study her and her hand drops to her hip, her fingers splaying over her flushed skin.

“I don’t remember the last time we did this.” Wendy nudges Irene to the bed and she lets her. “Or if it was good,” she teases.

Irene snorts. “We were drunk and looked up porn.”

“That’s probably true,” Wendy agrees. Her mouth is hovering over Irene’s and Irene feels like she’s going to forget how to breathe. “It sounds like us,” Wendy murmurs and she is in her space, her mouth grazing Irene’s. Just barely.

It’s like one, big, dramatic pause and Wendy lets Irene peel off her t-shirt, then her shorts, and oh god, they’re really going to do this. The heat that grows in her belly, drops to between her legs and Wendy gently pushes her over the bed, only to join her and lay on her side.

Neither of them moves just yet. Mostly, it’s just slight touches: Irene runs a finger over one of Wendy’s nipples. Flicks it lightly and watches, fascinated as Wendy inhales sharply, biting her lip. She does it again and Wendy squirms and one more time, watching as Wendy’s hips lift, just a little bit off the bed.

“It’s hot,” she murmurs and Wendy half-hisses, half-laughs.

In dark, her nipples are hard and Irene knows she’s both hot and wet. She licks her lips a little.

“How do we do this?” Irene asks too. 

Wendy leans in, her mouth nipping at her lips. Irene feels herself make a sound and the sheets twist underneath her. They’re damp from her shower.

“We were drunk when we watched porn,” Wendy teases. “Remember? And I’m also not as nimble as you.”

Irene snorts. “Nimble?”

“ _Nimble_ ,” Wendy says and Irene just thinks _solutions_.

Don’t ask her where it comes from. Part of it, is that she thinks about these things blindly and out of the blue. It always starts innocently enough: Wendy’s mouth, how she might taste if they kissed, how they kiss and nothing more beyond that because Irene also likes to punish herself.

So she does what she wants to do. She’s selfish like that.

Irene grabs Wendy’s hips. Twists so that Wendy is straddling her legs and Irene is sitting up, back against her headboard. Somehow, she kisses her then too – her mouth grabs at Wendy’s, her teeth sinking into her lip like the ice cream, moments before, because she wants to see if she still tastes as sweet as she might have early when she really wanted to do it that too.

Wendy’s fingers slide between her legs.

It doesn’t startle her. The kiss deepens and Irene swirls her tongue forward, marveling at how hot and slick the inside of Wendy’s mouth is, how in fact, it still tastes sweet. Her hips arch forward too, twisting slightly as Wendy pushes her fingers inside of her.

“Not _fair_ ,” she breathes and then swallows a laugh from Wendy. “You’re playing dirty. I thought this was about me.”

Wendy hums a little. “Of course it is.”

It takes literally minutes for Wendy to bring her off, the shower coming back into memory as her tension rises and falls and how she suddenly remembers that Wendy knows how to move her fingers just _right_ because Irene did show her and Wendy, oh Wendy, never really forgets.

But she’s more than just selfish, she thinks, and she’s also greedy, more than aware that her thighs are slick and she leans in, biting at Wendy’s nipple. Watches as her mouth parts and forms a slight o. Her fingers are in her hair now, twisting, and vaguely, Irene thinks, _I’m going to have to take another shower_ like it matters or something. Because it doesn’t.

The sheets have now completely bunched underneath them. She slides them forward, her mouth still over Wendy’s breast, then the plane between both breasts, as she twists and pushes Wendy back into the pillows and sheets.

“I was messing around in the shower,” she admits.

Wendy’s mouth twist and she leans up to steal a kiss, biting at her mouth too. “I wasn’t asking,” she says and Irene can’t figure out if she’s serious or teasing or if it matters at all.

On the pillows, Wendy’s hair fans out and Irene can only think things like _mine_ and _only mine_ because her head is starting spin like crazy. She palms her hip and Wendy never answers her, maybe even as if she knew. Wendy has always had a really frightening ability to read Irene and Irene, if anything, can at least say that she hides from that out loud.

She also knows this:

In the end, her mouth settles between Wendy’s legs and Wendy’s hands are both in her hair, pulling hard because Irene likes to eat her just like her ice cream – she is going to make sure that Wendy can’t forget any of this. She listens to every gasp, every moan, and feels how slick her mouth becomes because this is Wendy and this is how Wendy tastes. She pushes her too, even with Wendy grabbing at her hair, grabbing at her name, the low dangerous _joohyun_ that whistles between her lips because it’s just the two of them.

And maybe it’s about control, about what she can give and what she can take – she still pushes Wendy to the very end, feels her hips as they rise off the bed and into her mouth, dropping into trembles and heavy breathing. Neither of them says anything; they can’t.

This is usually where it stops.

In the morning, it just feels like crisis management.

_did you fix it_ reads a text from Joy, then Seulgi and Yeri because why not all descend at once when there’s still no solution and every single one of them know how this usually works. Irene’s patience is unusually thin and Wendy walks into the kitchen, wearing these _shorts_ and suddenly impossibly long legs.

“Let’s just get a hotel room,” she says and Irene hates that she can’t look away and that Wendy also knows that she probably can’t look away. Wendy pauses and then sighs, carefully almost. “This is stupid,” she manages too.

But still, they usually agree.

It’s always a loaded statement. “You’re right,” Irene says.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... not really sure what that was. But it had to happen, lol.


End file.
